Arrogant Prick: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (11 page)

T
he headphones clatter
loudly against the floor where I threw them. My heart is racing and all I can see is red.

I wanted to jump into that conversation if I could. To reach out and wrap my hands around his neck and choke the life out of
Don
Enzo.

“Fuck!”

My voice echoes in the room that's completely empty of any furnishings except the table my laptop is sitting on and my chair. If this wasn’t a safe house, I’d have smashed the table, but the last thing I need to do is draw attention to myself here. This is going to ruin my whole timetable.

I breath in slowly, trying to slow my racing thoughts and calm down. She didn’t know she was making a mistake. She’s just doing what any other properly raised Italian girl would do when they start dating: introduce them to their parents for approval.

It’s what El would have done. She was raised right. If only she’d been given the chance to grow into a woman, too.

I feel the sting of unshed tears burning in my eyes. I should have just finished him off last night. I had a chance. I was in his home. I shouldn’t have wasted my shot.

I picture Alessandra’s reaction, the way she’d break down when she heard the news. She’d never speak to me again. How could she?

I look at the FBI file spread out across my table. The folder with the notes on my dad sits on top of the Don's file. They spoke to him about their suspicion that he was laundering money through his business for the Pavonis. They threatened him with prosecution and tried to flip him.

I read the final note from the interview with a proud smile on my face:

Dead end.

He asked for his lawyer and told them to charge him if they had any evidence. My dad was a tough son of a bitch. He’d never rat.

That’s what’s so fucked up about all this. Nothing in the file explains why Don Enzo would have my dad killed, let alone my mom and sister. Unless he's just paranoid and kills people over even minor suspicions.

I slam my fist on the table and my pen rolls off onto the ground. If he did that, he’d be killing his own men left and right. The feds try to get his wise guys to flip all the time. If he killed everyone they tried to flip, he wouldn’t have anyone left to drive his car, let alone run one of the Five Families.

The file has notes on the hit on my family, too. The NYPD ruled it a home invasion. But the FBI were suspicious that it was a mob hit. Rumors from confidential informants hinted that the Pavonis were involved in some way, but ultimately there was nothing they could move on. No solid proof.

“Fuck!” As much as I want to just kill him and get over with, I know that’d be taking the easy way out. And Alessandra would never forgive me. I need actual proof that he did it. Maybe if I showed her what he did to my family, she’d forgive me. She’d have to. How could I not avenge them for what happened?

I note the time on the corner of the laptop screen. It’s time to pick up the third member of Tommy’s crew. Maybe he’ll have the answers I couldn’t find in the FBI file. One way or another, I’ll get the proof I need and get justice for my family.

* * *

T
he bouncer holds
the door open for Michael Delluci as he stumbles out of the bar. He turns back around and waves goodbye. “Nah, I’m good to drive home. See you boys at the funeral.”

I lean against the brick wall, digging my shoulder into its rough surface to keep myself alert. He stumbles a bit as he walks toward his black Mercedes S-Class parked a block from him. He's about a dozen paces in front me.

I step out from the corner, my head covered in a gray hoodie, hands tucked into my pockets as he digs his keys out of his pocket. It’s late out, but this is Brooklyn, and the streets are hardly deserted. I need to be careful.

I turn my head, making sure my face isn’t caught in the police camera mounted on top of a streetlight.

“Michael!” I wave hello to him as the Mercedes lights blink twice at the press of his keys. “It’s been a while, man.”

He looks up at me with a confused expression as he steps next to his car, trying to focus his eyes in the low light. “Who the fuck are you?”

It’s too late for him now. I’m just two steps away. He unbuttons his jacket, unsure what’s happening as I draw a Taser from my inside pocket, give him a hug and stick him with the metal prongs through his light jacket.

They pierce his tailored suit and deliver fifty thousand volts of electricity into his body. I hold his convulsing form in a tight hug as his eyes roll up into his head and he clenches his jaw so tightly a tooth breaks.

“Hey, you okay, man?” I keep him from sagging on his loose knees to the ground. A couple walks past us, turning our way as they head to the bar he came from. “You’re way too drunk to drive. Let me get you home.”

I nod to the couple as the woman shakes her head at us, and I open the passenger door and put Michael into the seat. He rolls his head toward me and tries to focus his eyes on my face. I smile at him as I stick him with one more hit of the Taser. He spasms in the car, arching his back and collapses back down once I let go of the button.

I slam the door shut on him, take the keys from where they fell to the ground and get in the driver’s seat.

I toss my false glasses out the window and turn to Michael’s passed out form after I’ve pulled off into the street. “I hope you didn’t have anyone waiting up for you. I’ve got a lot of answers I need, and all night to get them from you.”

* * *

“
Y
ou’re
a lot tougher than Tommy or Rizzo. I’ll give you that.” His muffled scream covers the sound of my knife slowly sawing through the cartilage in his ear. I hold the bloodied ear in front of his face and toss it onto the wet dirt.

Michael Delluci gasps into the bloodied rag stuffed into his mouth as I stand up in front of him and breath in the clean air to clear my thoughts. It smells of pine trees and the fresh bloom of spring flowers. My sister used to hate the spring. She had really bad allergies. Bad enough where drugs weren’t much help.

I lean down and yank the duct tape from his mouth. He spits out the rag from his mouth and vomits blood all over a very expensive shirt.

He looks up at me through his swollen eyelids. “You think you fucking scare me?” He spits on my boots. “I saw what you did to Tommy and Rizzo. I can handle worse.”

I squat in front of him and smile. “Good. Because it’s going to get a lot worse.”

I reach into my bag and take out a dagger and place it on the ground between his legs. It’s a real wicked-looking piece. The blade ends in a sharp curve that hooks out. The back side of the blade is serrated with wide teeth. It’s not any good in a fight, or for an interrogation. But it’s fucking intimidating. His wide eyes are proof of that.

But it’s not enough. That’s why I have the blow torch. I take out the sparker, turn on the gas and test the light. The torch catches at the first spark and I open the nozzle until the flame turns a nice shade of blue. Satisfied, I nod, turn off the blow torch and put it and the sparker down next to me.

Fat beads of sweat are dripping down his forehead, collecting in his bushy eyebrows. What he doesn’t know is that tools like this aren’t really useful in an interrogation. If I cut him up and used the blow torch to cauterize his wounds, he’d go into shock and maybe even die. That's a scenario that should be playing out in his head right now. But I can’t get the answers I need out of a corpse.

But what they are good for is sparking his imagination. Unless you're trained to withstand interrogation, your own thoughts become your worst enemy. There’s nothing I can do to him that’s worse than whatever he can dream up inside his head. So I just have to give him time. And hope. Hope that he can somehow make it out of this alive.

Tommy and Rizzo couldn’t have known enough for me to be patient. I was really careless with them. I moved by impulse, without proper forethought. I needed to get my anger out, and they were a convenient outlet for that.

I take out my cellphone and snap a picture of Michael tied up with zip ties, sitting in the middle of the forest. This guy, his face harshly lit in the flash of the camera, he’s a made man. He could actually have information worth waiting for.

“Do you know what I’m going to do with those?” I nod toward the knife between his feet and the blow torch to my side.

“Fuck you.” His voice is lower, less defiant. His imagination is getting the better of him. That's a good sign. I decide to push him.

“Let me tell you.” I pick up the dagger and press the point of its hook against the tip of my index finger. “See this thing here? It’s not much good in a fight. You can’t really get a good grip on it, and it’s got terrible balance.”

I feign the motions my hand weapons instructor put me through ten years back. It feels like that was a lifetime ago.

“What this is good for is skinning animals.” That’s a lie too, but his FBI files showed that he was born and raised in Brooklyn. The closest he’s come to hunting was probably watching The Deer Hunter.

“See, I served in Afghanistan about ten years back. It was a brutal war. Nothing like the Gulf War.” I twirl the knife on its hooked point against my finger. “So we had to do a lot of bad things.”

He eyes dart all around, looking for any hope for escape. But he has none.

I lean in toward him. “Do you know who I am?”

He hesitates, but finally finds his voice again. “You’re Dominic’s kid.”

“That’s right.” I put the blade of the knife flat under his chin and lift it up so I can stare directly into his eyes. “And you're Michael Delluci, the made man in charge of the crew that murdered my family.”

His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he swallows loudly.

“Do you know what I’m going to do with these things?” I nod to the blow torch, tilt the knife under his neck until its blade is against his skin and press it just enough to draw blood.

He almost nods, but the knife keeps his chin from moving. I let him tilt his head up so he can speak. “Yes.”

“This doesn’t really have to get messy.” I pull the knife out from under his chin and stick it in the dirt next to me. “I just want to know a few things, and then I’m done with you.”

“No.” He wouldn’t believe me if I lied to him anyway. “We’re way beyond that, and you know that.”

He looks down at the knife in the dirt. I can tell he’s thinking of making a play for it, but he’s got no chance with his ankles hobbled and his wrists tied together.

“I can either get my answers slowly through the rest of the night, and spend tomorrow killing your family.” I take the Glock out of my hoodie and show it to him. “Or I can end you cleanly, and let your family live to see your face at your funeral.”

His eyes rise to meet mine, and he blinks to get the sweat out of his eyes.

“You know how generous I’m being, right?” I speak through clenched teeth. “You didn’t give my family the same courtesy.”

His eyes drop, and he nods slowly. “What do you want to know?”

“Who ordered the hit?”

He barely hesitates. “The boss.”

“Don’t get cute, I want a name.”

“Don Enzo Pavoni.” He practically spits out that name.

“Why?” I go on before he answers. “And don’t tell me my dad was a fucking rat. I’ve read the FBI file; I know he never flipped.”

“Didn’t matter.” He looks away from me. “The boss is paranoid as fuck now. He’s killing anyone who’s ever been picked up by the FBI. He’s having us mark them up too, like the fucking Colombians.”

He looks me in the eyes again. “Believe me, I’m not an animal. I was sickened by what we had to do, but he’s the boss. I can’t go against his orders.”

Blood is pounding in my ears. I barely hear his excuse. Every part of me wants to take him apart piece by piece. To make the worst his imagination had to offer come true, but I need to get a hold of myself, and do this with a clear head.

“Why should I believe you?”

“Because that fucker’s orders have me on my knees in the fucking woods about to be executed.” He shakes his head and laughs morbidly. “Hell, if you don’t believe me, just wait. He’s not done killing every imaginary turncoat yet. There’ll be more families killed like this before he’s through.”